I have always wanted to be loved.
So badly, in fact, that in 2024 I reshaped myself for everyone around me. I didn’t just want to be loved by one person — I wanted to be loved by everyone. I wanted everyone to like me, so I changed myself to fit what I thought they wanted. I wanted everyone to feel safe with me, so I tried to be more open. I wanted everyone to feel that they mattered to me, even if it meant I mattered less to myself.
Back then, I was fragile. I didn’t know who I truly was. I was soft, quiet, and constantly afraid of taking up space. I was a little girl who believed that perfection was the only way to be loved, so I tried desperately to become it. I kept my problems to myself, swallowed my opinions, hid my perspectives, and tucked away the things I loved. I absorbed every definition of me that others placed on my shoulders because I believed that if I kept being what they wanted me to be, they would finally love me. But in the end, they still left — and I felt like I had failed.
Then came 2025, and something inside me shifted.
I began to discover myself — truly discover myself — and for that, I am proud. I realized I am not soft in the way they imagined. I am not fragile. I am vocal, opinionated, and dominant — the very opposite of what people once expected me to be. For a while, I thought I was finally free: free to express myself, free from old habits, free from the need to please.
But healing is not a straight line.
Even after all that growth, I saw traces of my old self reappear in small moments — when I couldn’t express my feelings, when I was afraid of being “too much,” when I hesitated to show who I truly am because I feared I wouldn’t be loved. I found myself trying to fit in again, chasing standards, learning things just to belong, and doing everything to look pretty and acceptable so people might like me. Yet, even in that struggle, I told myself, “It’s okay. Baby steps.”
Then late in 2025, I fell for someone.
We weren’t quite friends, but we weren’t lovers either — somewhere in between, on and off, always finding our way back to each other. For almost two months, I felt happy. We stayed up talking late into the night, sharing deep conversations, dreams, and stories about his family and future. I learned him by heart — the way he spoke when he was happy, how he disappeared when he was sad, and how he returned when it was convenient.
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For a moment, I thought I was loved.
I felt safe with him. I felt cared for. I felt like I mattered. But beneath that comfort was an old, familiar ache — abandonment. As time passed, that feeling grew heavier. Every 11-hour delayed reply, every broken promise, every moment he made me feel loved only to pull away again made me feel smaller and smaller. My desire to be loved became louder than my self-respect, and I hated that — because I had worked so hard to build it.
Still, I stayed. I held onto every little hope, every sweet word, every mixed signal, because deep down, that little girl in me still believed that love could come true this time.
Slowly, I began to settle. I settled for whatever he could give, even when it hurt. I settled for inconsistency and confusion, convincing myself that this must be love. But then I noticed something heartbreaking — my baby steps were disappearing. The progress I had made was fading. Old scars were reopening, and I found myself back in a situation I had fought so hard to leave behind.
That was when it hit me.
This is not what love looks like. Love shouldn’t feel like this.
If love makes you feel suffocated, confused, insecure, and lost within yourself — is it really love? In my dreams, love looks like a garden. It is peaceful and light. It feels like home. It is colorful, warm, and alive — a place where I can rest, cry, and feel safe without fear of being abandoned. A garden that embraces me instead of shrinking me.
And in that realization, I finally accepted something painful but necessary: he is not for me.
Maybe one day we will meet again — older, wiser, freer, and healed. Maybe we will share a gentle hug, say sorry, and understand each other better. But for now, letting go is the kindest thing I can do for myself.
Because I am learning that true love is not just holding on — sometimes, true love is accepting that someone is not meant to stay.
And maybe, that is what love truly is.
And so, I am now letting go.
I am letting go of the memories, the expectations, and even the disrespect I allowed myself to endure. I am choosing to release what no longer serves me, even if my heart is not fully ready.
But I am not yet ready to see you in person.
I am not ready to look into your eyes and be reminded of every wound you reopened, every promise you broke, and every word you took back. I am not ready to stand in front of you and pretend that I am unaffected when I know how deeply I felt.
I will try my best to forget — not because you deserve to be erased, but because I deserve peace. And if being angry, distant, and avoiding you is the safest thing I can do for myself right now, then so be it.
For now, I hope my hatred for you does not fade.
And I hope our paths do not cross again — not right now.
I have loved you hard — but I am going to disappear harder.
I will leave it all behind and go as far as I can, even if it hurts, even if it feels unfinished. But I will become who I told you I would be.
Not for you anymore — but for me.
